Apologies By Night
by intallah
Summary: Roy/Winry-angst, conversation and smut.


_Roy/Winry. Characters are not mine. Contains sexuality and mature themes._

**apologies by night**

1. _meaning is sometimes hard to spot _

_it begins with the flickering of cigarettes_

-i watched you taking off, bright eyes

"They're not coming back." Her voice is empty, and it pains him to know that he has heard that exact tone before, too many times. She lights a cigarette with fingers that shake, and doesn't ask for his help.

"Don't." He says because he doesn't need to see that. She clenches her jaw and drives the cigarette into the ground.

He does not know why she has come to him. But she is

here, sitting in his office with her legs crossed and her face pale and untouched.

"I just want to tell you-" She begins and fixes her eyes on him. She is so much older now, older than the girl who wept ("I hate you, I hate you, _I hate you_) at him all those years ago, but still, she is so _young_. She wears her forgiveness as if she is a martyr. He thinks she may be. "I'm alone now, you know. And it's not your fault."

His fault. Should he have held Al back? Volunteered himself instead of Ed (sacrificed really, because his alchemy was flashy and useful but unsubtle, not as complex as the Elric brothers')?

"You aren't alone." He said quietly, which didn't strike him as particularly compassionate or intelligent but it saved him from having to ask the question he really wanted to (how would it be my fault?).

Her face crumpled, eyes squeezing tight and hands coming up to dig fingernails into her cheeks. She is a mess now, hair loose from its polished ponytail, rests heavily over her bare shoulders. He can see her hipbone jutting out, her stomach flat and white and a little bit alluring. It is a waist he can imagine wrapping his fingers around, skin he can imagine tasting. But no, because he is far too old and he killed her parents and she has forgiven him and she is devastated and _Riza, Riza, Riza_-it is all kinds of wrong.

He pulls his eyes back to her face and she is crying soundlessly, "I _am_. You took them from me, but it's not your fault."

"I took your parents from you-" there is a gasp, "Not the Elric brothers." And there, he is Roy Mustang again, staunch and harsh and a little bit unstable. "You know that."

He can see pain; he remembers the pain in the blue eyes of the dying woman. And there it is again, as if it is Winry now gasping for her life, splayed on a floor of unforgiving sand, dark red seeping grotesquely out from her body.

"I forgive you." She says hollowly, and this time she wears it like a shroud and he knows she does not. He thinks maybe he should take her hand but that is selfish (he only wants to touch her, he has no interest in _comfort_).

"I wouldn't." He tries not to smirk, he really does, but habit is habit and her face falls when she sees. He still doesn't know what she is looking for.

"They're gone." She repeated, eyes searching his face "Aren't you sad?"

"Yes." _I don't know._ And there is a silence-the longest, most terrible silence he has ever experienced (almost).

"What are you doing today?" He said, wishing he could take it back. It was panic, that was all, a desperate need for conversation. But she is cold once more, as if the last few amiable years have slipped out from under them (he used to telephone her, damn it!).

"Nothing." Her tears are gone, and she looks a little better for it. Crying does not suit Winry like it suits other beautiful, tragic women (but she is still a girl, an old girl, but a girl none the less).

"Drink?" He is falling back on old strategies now, even though he is sure they will fail. But Winry only nods and then he is pouring scotch for this girl, this girl who by all means should not be drinking scotch with him.

Her jaw clenches as she swallows and she shuts her eyes. He drinks too, out of simple obligation (Roy Mustang, always the gentleman).

"I'm sorry for coming." She says hoarsely when she's finished, "Really." Her skin looks thin, translucent, as if it is tissue paper stretched over her bones. Grief had snatched onto her now, wasn't going to let her go so easily. He takes her hand.

"Don't be. I'm sorry." He is sorry for everything, but he doesn't need to elaborate.

"I know." She coughs a little and lets him hold her hand. "Ed came back last time, after all." He sees the smile stick on her face; it looks out of place, as if her watermelon-pink lips are hideously contorted.

"Yes." He feels awful all of a sudden because fuck, she's what? 18? Not too mention the deaths of her parents…oh dear lord, what has he done? She looks into his eyes and he finds all sorts of unsettling emotions there. He pulls his hand away and shoves it into his pocket. "I'm sorry."

"You said that already." Her face is cold again, and whatever he had seen in her eyes (it wasn't lust, that much he knew was sure) was gone, extinguished by reality and other encompassing hindrances.

"Did you love him?" It is not the right question because her face fell again (and again, it was his fault) and she pressed her fingers to her lips as if to still the whimper that escaped. He pours himself another scotch. She pushes her glass forward timidly and he does not raise his eyebrow, although the muscle twitches a little bit.

"I loved them both." She whispers, "You have no right to ask me that, Roy." He is not shocked by the lack of formality; he expects it from her.

"I'm…" He stops. She frowns and sips her drink gingerly.

"Sorry." She says, "You shouldn't throw that word around. One day people might start believing it." She flicked her tongue along the rim of her glass and he swallowed. Her eyes are hard now; she knows what game she is playing. And she will be unmerciful, won't she.

"Look, Ms. Rockbell…did you need to ask me about something? Because I haven't got all day." _I have no need to play games with beautiful girls like you._ Winry only tugs at her too-short top and drains her glass.

She does not look taken aback at his harshness, which is another surprise. Rather, she fixes her gaze upon him steadily and something in her eyes reminds him of Ishbal then, of her father. He wants this to be over.

"I don't want to be alone." She looks a little surprised at her words, and he waits a few moments for them to sink in. He wants to as her _why_. Why come to him for this?

"You must have friends…family." Shit, Mustang, now you've done it.

"I don't have much family. You saw to that." Her words are softened but still bitter and there is no longer a shroud of forgiveness. He doesn't apologize.

"Ms. Rockbell, I would love to help you, but you aren't really helping me to do that." Good, sympathetic but firm. The delicate, untouched flesh of her collarbone was beginning to look appealing. He fixated on that instead of her eyes (they were accusing and sad; her collarbone was smooth and inviting).

"You can't help me." She stood, "Thank you for your time, and the drinks." She said coolly and she turned and walked out of his office as if she was waiting for him to stop her.

"Wait."

For Roy Mustang there has always been a power far greater than alchemy. He has seen it work throughout the years. And Winry has it written all over her. There is a polished, obvious sort of prettiness too her face, and her many other assets are flawless as well (he takes inventory carelessly and clinically; long legs, hard, small waist, hard, feminine curves) but there is more to her now. He can see the despair in her eyes so clearly that he feels it himself; can see that the hands itch to hold something. She turns as if she is an impenetrable fortress (_alba_) but he knows it isn't true.

"Yes." But she already knows what he wants. Which means that he can't take it.

"Never mind."

She crosses her arms and takes a deep breath and then turns quickly and leaves. He knows she'll be back.

2. _your heart is ripshit_

_your mouth is everywhere_

_i'm lyin' in it._

-is she weird, the pixies

It is a cruel trick, the next time he sees her. She is standing at Hughes's grave and he can't quite understand why she would be there. She says nothing when she sees him and he realizes that she looks _worse_ rather than better. It has been four months.

"Mustang." She murmurs and he nods at her. They stand in silence and he waits for her to leave (she doesn't).

"How have you been?" He doesn't look at her because he is afraid of what he might find in her face.

"Fine." She turns to face him, he can see from her feet, "No apologies this time, Roy."

"I wasn't going to." He looks up at her and her eyes are piercing and clear, standing out in her thin face. She holds her hands clenched in front of her body. "You must have something to live for," he says before he can think.

"Of course I do." She is even older now, much older than the girl he drank scotch with, the girl whose collarbone he had wanted to touch. They are silent and Roy wonders if he should take her out for drinks. He decides against it because if he takes her out they might get drunk and he certainly did not trust himself with a (gorgeous) drunken teenage girl, who incidentally seems to hate him. When she speaks again her words are a little harsh and forced, a little foreign. "Did they say anything?" It takes him a moment to realize that this is what she wanted to ask him, had wanted to ask him for months. "You know, before they left? Anything to me?"

He wants to lie. He wants to tell her that they told him that they loved her; they would never ever forget her. But they didn't. "No."

She looks away; she had evidently been expecting another answer, "Nothing?" She whispers to the grave, "After all I've done for them?" Her voice breaks and Mustang staggers forward and then she is in his arms and she is _sobbing_.

"They did it for you." He says it suddenly, and the idea comes to him just as quickly, "It was for _you_ Winry!" He pulls her off him, forces himself to meet her eyes and he realizes, finally, what he sees in them. "They wanted to save you, don't you understand?"

She cries harder and presses her body to him, tugs him into her, but he knows she has heard him. "God," she chokes and he pulls her closer. The awkwardness has vanished; there is no longer room for it.

In her eyes he can see his own heart reflected, he could see the thing he has searched for, the thing that has evaded him for his whole life. In her eyes he can see truth.

She is shaking in his arms and he lowers his lips to her forehead, because really, she is just a child. She is just a child who needs to be comforted. She stirs against him, takes a shuddering breath and looks into his face. He wonders what she sees in it.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. He puts a finger to her lips (dry and rough and desolate).

"No apologies." He says and she nods.

"But I still am."

"You shouldn't be." And that's when she kisses him.

It's not unpleasant. It's definitely not unpleasant. In fact, her lips feel much softer now that they are pressed to his and she certainly knows what to do with her tongue and _where are her hands going?_ He leaps back and she stumbles back and mumbles something and then presses her fingers to her mouth.

"We shouldn't." He says softly, too shocked to say anything else. He misses her lips already, wants to cup each and every one of those perfect curves. She's ignited something now, and it's about to be incinerated.

"Why not?" Her voice is tortured and tragic and all he wants is to have her in his arms again (you killed her parents) and kiss her (Riza) and touch all of that perfect body (she's just a girl).

"It's wrong. We shouldn't, I'm sorry." She looks at him as though he has just stabbed her and all he can think is please; please let me taste you again. She steps towards him.

"You don't actually think that," A few steps closer, she hooks her fingers behind his lapel, tugs him forward and whispers into his ear, "You miss them too, don't you?"

She's burned down the wall now, and thrown the torch at him and then his mouth is _everywhere_ and her hands are all over him and she keeps moaning breathlessly, as if he's doing something incredible to her and it is perfect and everything he has ever wanted.

His fingers find her hipbone, stroke it and hook over it and he pushes his leg between hers _hard_ and she gasps and says in a strangled voice, "Not here, please not here." He wrenches his lips from her throat and turns and sees _Brigadier General Maes Hughes_ and pulls himself away from her (fuck, it's torture already).

She is a mess, with her hair all undone and her neck peppered with blotches and her lips bruised and her skirt hitches up and she looks like a little girl again and he remembers the first time he met her and he feels a little sick.

"I should go." He is hoarse and she makes a little noise of despair and it is all too much for him. He has work to do this evening, after all.

"Yes." She nods and turns away, walking slowly while she adjusts her clothes and fixes her hair. She turns to him once more. "I'll see you again, though." Her voice is small and he knows what she's really trying to say. _I'm not ready._

"Alright." _Please, please don't do this to me. _

But she is alone, and so it is him she will isolate with her.

3_you wave your torch into my eyes_

_Flamethrower lover burning mind_

-incinerate, sonic youth

The third time he decides that it cannot go any further. He also decides that she is sexy and gorgeous and wonderful and this is all very disturbing and completely wrong.

So he takes her out to dinner.

She doesn't eat much, not he had expected her too. Instead they share a bottle of white wine, and a couple plates of decadent, overpriced appetizers. He doesn't know what is going to happen, but he sincerely hopes it won't happen over warm goat cheese canapés and stuffed truffles.

She keeps thanking him, and tentatively looking up into his eyes. Vaguely he wonders if this is supposed to be romantic. She's put make up on for him, he notices, and her eyeliner is smudged and unsubtle, her lips wet and inviting. She's piled her hair on her head and there are tendrils escaping, swirling down her white shoulders, and standing out starkly amidst the black fabric of her mini dress. She is ready and she wants him to know it.

Conversation comes slowly, but it is not awkward. Instead their stilted words are punctuated by silences long and easy. He could get used to this, if he were to let himself. But he can feel her foot nudging his, gliding against his ankle and he knows he has to speak.

"Winry, this can't continue."

She purses her lips and tilts her head sideways; "I know that."

He hadn't been expecting that. He had been looking for a fight, he had been expecting her to say no-no I must have you (the good old ego, at it again). But then she reached across the table and took his hand; "Can't it go somewhere first? Just once." Her voice is too sugared and sweet and he lightly asks her how old she is. She lets go of his hand.

"I'm nineteen." She says, "It doesn't matter. Can we get out of here?" She is holding the half-full bottle of wine in one hand and Roy nods and leaves money with the leftover food. And so they leave, and Roy Mustang learns that when this girl with the truth in her eyes looks at him he is completely powerless.

"Don't worry," She keeps telling him, as if it would fix it all, as if it mattered anymore whether he worried or not. She pulls him to his car and he has the keys and she has spilled wine all over her arms and they are _laughing_.

_Remember this,_ he tells himself as she pushes him into the car and swings in after him, pulling the door closed, _remember being happy, only for a moment._

"It's a hook up," She whispers breathlessly into his ear and her tongue grazes the lobe. He shivers. "That's all, right Roy?" And he is nodding, but he doesn't even care what she's saying.

She is young and he cannot look at her without remembering her mother's face. There is pain there, but he buries it as he meets her mouth for a kiss, pulls her tighter. She squirms against him and he knows, as he tastes her collarbone and hitches up her dress, he knows that he is about to lose his mind.

She doesn't say his name, or look at him while he kisses her. She shuts her eyes instead, presses her fingers to her lips as he kisses his way down her neck. He feels terrible, but somehow the way her legs twitch and the hard flatness of her stomach makes up for it. He licks wine off her wrist and she coughs.

"I don't love you," She whispers and he pulls her over so she is straddling him.

"Good," He tries a smirk, even though he doesn't really feel like it, "It's better that way, trust me." She falls into him then, mouth pliant and responsive over his and he can taste wine and that's _all_. She clenches her thighs around his, grinding her pelvis against his and he gasps, which makes her laugh. "Are you sure about this?"

"Of course," She whispers, "Are you?"

"No." She laughs again and briefly he is happy to see her smile. But then her hands travel downwards and he slips his up her dress, feeling the untouched smoothness of her inner thigh and her eyes fly open. She smiles.

He has her bra off in seconds, and she yanks at his collar, wrenching buttons open and lowering her mouth to his chest, giggling and gasping and he flicks a finger across her nipple. She slips a few fingers down his pants, yanking the waistband away from his body, using her other hand to undo his zipper while he slides her panties down, both of them shaking, quivering with eerie anticipation.

She is hot and wet against his fingers, and she tenses and squirms, his name an oath between her lips. He doesn't dare to say her name, doesn't dare to remember who she is and break this spell. She pulls him free of his pants and looks him straight in the eyes and the moment is so intense that he can feel it resonate, as if she had touched him. And then she is touching him and her hands are _all over_ and it is the most perfect, complete form of agony he has ever felt.

She is still in his lap, jammed between his body and the steering wheel, which can't be comfortable, but she doesn't seem to notice. She managed to stammer out a request for a condom, her face flushed, and mouth open. He pauses, fingers trailing up her stomach, across her thighs.

"No." He remembers precisely why too-he knew that they were simply _not_ going to have sex. It was far too wrong, wasn't it? And the way he was touching her, oh god, he can remember her father's yells, her mother's last breath…and Winry! Winry the little girl! _Ed's_ Winry…and he pushes her away with horrible finality.

The moment of happiness is over now, replaced with a sickening anticlimax. He fixes his clothes urgently, smoothes back his hair, starts the car (he is still hard and it is almost too much to handle but he _will_ anyway. Because Winry looks just like her mother and that he truly cannot handle).

Winry is crumpled in the passenger seat, facing him with terrible, smoldering eyes and she makes no moves to adjust her clothing, no attempts to make her presentable. Her breath comes in sharp gasps, her hands loose and useless, gripping the blackness of her dress. Her right breast is exposed, her dress hangs off her shoulder and he can see a trail of saliva gleaming over it in the darkness. Feeling a little sick he picks her bra off the floor and hands it to her. She doesn't take it so he lets it fall in her lap, the white lace stark against the rumpled black.

"I'm sorry." He says, forgetting his promise and she does not speak, only pulls up the strap of her dress and stuffs her bra unapologetically into her purse. "Where are you staying?"

"Take me to the train station." Her voice is empty and she stares straight ahead. For the moment he doesn't mind.

"It's late."

"Take me to the train station."

"You can stay at Central."

"I can take the train."

"Please."

"No."

He is frustrated now and it is (finally) something he is familiar with. Something he can hold onto, something he can feel. "Fine." He says with a heady rush, "Take the damn train."

She pulls her panties up from her ankles awkwardly and nods, lips tight and a little swollen. Her face is a mess he does not want to look at. All smeared make up and cherry-purple lips and cheeks glowing and flushed. There's a hickey on her neck (what are you, a teenager?) and he feels the dull sting of shame.

He drops her off at the train station. And he is happy to see her go. But he knows he'll see her again.

_"If sex isn't a joke, what is?"_

-nella larsen

(end)


End file.
